


Bottoms Up

by monimala



Category: Cheers (TV), Cosby Show
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just a plotless, smutty hook-up born from a Twitter "What if?" proposed by Daytime Confidential's Jamey Giddens. Please hop aboard the express bus to Hell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottoms Up

The lights are dim. The bar almost ready for close. She can’t make herself leave yet. There’s two sips left in the bottom of her bottomless glass of Chardonnay. She hasn’t had this much wine since law school, and it’s all gone to her head. Or maybe it’s the look he’s been giving her all night. He. Him. A man not her husband. The polar opposite of Cliff.

His name is Sam. Sam Malone. He played ball, he told her early in the evening, gesturing proudly at the Red Sox banners on the wall. “Relief pitcher,” he said, letting her know precisely what kind of relief he might offer now.

The sleeves of his soft cotton shirt are pushed up past his elbows, revealing darkly haired arms. He’s wiped the same spot in front of her on the bar approximately eight times. As if each swipe of the cloth against the wood grain is a come on. A flirtation. Even with her wedding ring in plain sight on her left hand — the hand that’s now balling up a bar napkin and digging perfect red nails into her palm. As if the pain can shock sense back into her. As if the crumple of paper will sober her and still her and send her back to Brooklyn as virtuous and self-righteous as she left it. 

Clair has never allowed herself to want. She is needed. By Cliff, by her children, by her clients. She is needed and she gives. She does not take.

This man wiping down the bar for the ninth time, dark eyed and smiling and just a shade too lewd, has all sorts of things for the taking.

Perhaps it’s a scrape of cloth. Maybe it’s her sharp intake of breath as she chokes on the last mouthful of wine. But Sam sets down his dishcloth and comes out from behind the bar. He whispers “Clair” even though she does not recall telling him her name. He says it with the pure confidence of a man who’s never been told “no.” That arrogance that a pretty white man spends decades cultivating and mere minutes acting on.

But, oh, they will be enjoyable minutes. Of that, Clair has no doubt. So when he places his palm against her neck and leans close, all she says is “yes.” 

**

She’s gorgeous. And way out of his league. He knew that when she walked in, hours ago. Norm bet him $10 he’d get nowhere. Frasier put in for $20. Cliff hemmed and hawed about the relative morality before putting in a bid for five. Sam had $35 in his pocket just a few minutes later, because she smiled at him. Her perfect black eyebrows arching up, _sizing him up_ , red lips curving into a gorgeous grin. That smile said “Hello, Sam Malone. Feel free to rock my world.” So, he sent Carla and Woody off early with the promise of full pay and tips, and he started closing up a half-hour before last call.

He knows a sure thing when he sees it. When he tastes it. Clair, all sharp suit and pearls and way too much class for his bar, is a sure thing. And he doesn’t need to ask her why. He just has to touch her. _Needs_ to touch her.

Her skin is warm, flushed from all the white wine. Warm all the way down to the vee of her jacket…and she doesn’t complain when he unbuttons it and dives beneath the skimpy silk shell underneath.

He spins her around, braces her palms on the bar so he can kiss her neck, cup her tits and die against the curve of her ass in her prim little business skirt. He wonders if she knows he’s going to have her right here. He’s not even going to bother to stumble the few steps to his office.

And then he doesn’t have to wonder because Clair pushes back against him, slipping one hand between them to stroke him through his jeans as she unzips her skirt with the other.

He’s harder than he’s been in a long time. It’s almost painful. Almost embarrassing. Almost over before it starts.

But then she’s got him out. In her fingers. Guiding his cock into her. And he slides his arm around her waist. Their hips snap together hard enough to slam her up against the bar and him balls-deep inside her slick, hot, depths. And that’s how it goes. The hottest sex of his life so far. In the dark. At Cheers. Hearing her pant and gasp and moan as he bends her across the wood and makes it good.

Afterward, she collapses forward, forehead on the bar, knees shaking. He slides a stool beneath her before she can fall. “Clair?” he asks, hitching up his jeans as his dick begs for another round.

She looks at him, sloe-eyed and satisfied, one cheek absorbing the coolness of the polished wood grain while the other still flushes with heat. Heat _he_ put there.

“Sam?” Her voice is husky from screaming. From sex. “Make it a double.”

 

 

\--end-- 

January 19, 2014.


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